


μολών λαβέ-Come and Take Them

by booksnerdharrypotter



Category: Greek Tragedy, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Death, M/M, Trojan War, its a bit sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10952325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnerdharrypotter/pseuds/booksnerdharrypotter
Summary: this is just a little something i had to write for an english project :)





	μολών λαβέ-Come and Take Them

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a little something i had to write for an english project :)

“We have to win this war.” 

Achilles, seated by the burning flames of the campfire, laughed harshly. “You do not think I know this already? We have not been fighting these past nine years for naught.”

Sitting on the felled log beside his partner, Patroclus grunted. He placed his head in his hands exasperatedly and sighed indignantly at the hero sitting next to him. “I am not that dumb to think that way, Achilles; my life is not just about being a warrior on the field of battle.”

The moon glistened in the night sky, as crystal clear as the stars surrounding its surface. A raging wind blew throughout the campsite, rustling the leaves and the tents alike. The howling breeze fleshed out the goose-bumps on the skin of every person left lying in its wake, while the metallic scent of blood was all that could be smelt.

It was incredibly eerie. Too eerie.

Achilles could only stare at his brooding partner with love filled eyes. His heart thumped within his chest, racing in time with his rapid thoughts. “You know that is not what I meant.”

“No, nor what I meant, either.” Patroclus murmured. “All I meant was that we need to end it now: our provisions are running low and men are being  _excerebrose_   _morosoph_.”

They held each other’s sweaty, calloused hands; a great source of comfort in their time of need. The two sat in a quiet solitude, preferring not to ruin the moment with unneeded words. Patroclus coughed.

“I have an idea but I know you will not like it, but it may be our only way of survival,” he said, breaking the silence.

“And what will that be?” Achilles replied. He stood up and began pacing in front of the fire, his mind like a raging inferno.

“I will take your place in this war, if you wish not to participate any longer.”  Patroclus averted his eyes from that of his lover and waved his hand. “No, I do not intend to insult you, my love. All I mean is that I will use your fear-like stigma and drive back the Trojan forces.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” 

“I am going to wear your armour.” Patroclus shivered in the night air, and he huddled closer to the fire. “If they do not know it is not truly you, then they will still be afraid. I will disguise myself as you and fight with an army of men at dawn.”

Achilles shook his head heatedly. “I can’t let you do this-”

“You have already made your choice not to fight because of your quarrel with the commander; this is my decision.”

Patroclus wrapped himself within the arms of his lover, who kissed the top of his forehead. Achilles nudged his head between the crook of the other’s neck and shoulder, and breathed heavily.

“I will respect your decision, even though I am not happy with it. It would do well to no longer have this war be a thorn in our sides.” Achilles said, his voice muffled. “However, will you make one promise to me?”

“Of course,  _agape_. Whatever you need.” Patroclus sighed.

“Do not die on me, okay? I need you to stay alive at all costs- I do not wish to live a life without you.”

Patroclus laughed softly, kissing the top of Achilles’ head. “I will try my hardest. I love you.”

“And I you."

 

*** 

Achilles waited. He had been sitting within the confines of his tent since dawn had passed and Patroclus had left. This campsite was like a prison, barricading him in from the arms of his lover. He was impatient with longing.

The tent was a furnace in the heat of the sun, with sweat steadily dripping down Achilles’ hunger-stricken face. A gentle knock sounding at the material door, and the hero barked a grunt of acknowledgment to welcome in whoever was there.

A young warrior walked into the tent, his expression desolate.

“Is there any news from the field? What of Patroclus?” Achilles demanded. He rose from his perch on his makeshift bed.

“By the gods, I’m sorry, so sorry. The battle was a success, but Patroclus he- he didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

Achilles screamed. His temper was a volcano, exploding in a searing of heat. He was so consumed by his sea of grief that he did not notice the young soldier leaving. Breathless mutterings streamed from his mouth, making no sense to even him, let alone anyone who may be listening nearby. Achilles felt dead. He felt as if a piece of his very soul had been torn out, and the rest of his body was boiling in the pits of Tartarus.

Grabbing his sword and shield, Achilles left the tent. He sprinted out of the Achaean camp and into the midst of the Trojan warriors nearby. He could not think. He could only scream.

The hero had never lost to anyone in a fight- not with his mother’s divine blood and having been dipped in the River Styx as a child. He was practically invulnerable.

Achilles killed everyone who came against him. Their blood was mixing with his tears that were like a river, flowing starkly down his cheeks. He fought as brave as a lion, and as cunning as a fox. No one could hope to match him.

“Achilles!” Someone screamed from nearby. He couldn’t hear them, and couldn’t listen to them. He had to kill them all and avenge the death of Patroclus. Achilles’ love for him had been- still was- as deep as the ocean. It was a never-ending hurricane of emotions.

“You killed him!” Achilles screamed at the top of his lungs. “You butchered him and turned him into food for animals!”

The hero turned his head around and he could see the enemy he had missed; the archer sitting up on the wall surrounding Troy. Achilles could see the arrow shooting through the air for a perfect aim at the back of his foot. His mortal point, his Achilles Heel.

Sometimes, knowing was the key to wisdom. Achilles could see his death flashing right before his eyes, and he made peace with it. He would only hope that he would be in Elysium, where he knew Patroclus would be in the Underworld.

And so, the arrow, shot with the worthiness of Apollo, came ever closer to hitting Achilles’ heel. He let death consume him, and his storming sea of sorrow filled him with love for his partner.

 

_Only the dead have seen the end of the war._  –Plato

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
